“Robinson—go home!” he said, in sepulchral tones. The constable positively jumped. He gaped on all sides in real terror. He, too, had heard hair-raising tales of Owd Ben. “Go home!” hissed Furneaux, leaning out. Then the other looked up. “Oh, it’s you, sir!” he gasped, sighing with relief. “Man, you’ve had the closest shave of your life! There’s a fellow below there who shoots at sight.” “But I’m on duty, sir.” “You’ll be in Kingdom Come if you gaze in at that window. Be off!” “I—” “Robinson, you and I will quarrel if you don’t do as I bid you. And that would be a pity, because I want to inform Mr. Fowler that he has a particularly smart man in Steynholme.” “Very well, sir, if _you’re_ satisfied, I _must_ be.” And away went the eavesdropper, crushed, still tingling with that fear of the supernatural latent in every heart, but far from convinced. Furneaux tripped downstairs. The routing of Robinson had put him into a real good humor. He found the three in the dining-room gazing spell-bound at the felt hat. “Now, young lady, you’re coming with me,” he said, grinning amiably. “The Sussex constabulary is quelled for the hour.” “But, Mr. Furneaux, I recognize that hat!” said Doris, and it was notable that even Hart remained silent. The detective looked at her strangely, but put no question. “I am almost sure it belongs to our local Amateur Dramatic Society,” went on the girl. “It was worn by Mr. Elkin last November. He played a burlesque of Svengali. I was Trilby, and caught a horrid cold from walking about without shoes or stockings.” “Don’t tell me any more,” was Furneaux’s surprising comment. “I’ll do the rest. But let me remark, Miss Martin, that I experienced great difficulty, not so long ago, in persuading friend Grant that you were the only important witness this case has provided thus far. Playing in a burlesque, were you? We’ve been similarly engaged to-night. The farce must stop now. It makes way for grim tragedy. Not one word of to-night’s events to anyone, please.... Are you ready?” Doris stood up. Hart thrust the negro’s head at the detective. “Fouché,” he said, “do you honestly mean slinging your hook without making any inquiry as to Owd Ben?”